Me

Neglected

by Veronica Foale on January 29, 2012

in Life,Me

Life got crazy and the unessential parts of me got neglected. Not that I stopped writing blog posts in my head at 2am, I just stopped getting out of bed to type them out. Which I’m certain is sensible, but it’s also pretty slack.

I managed to get married, without any hiccups, except the rain and an impatient celebrant.

And then I miscarried.

There is a certain miserablness to watching a pregnancy slide down your legs. Even more so when you wonder, if you’d rested more, would this be happening? (probably) The week leading up to the wedding was crazy, with hospitalisations (Isaac) and bleeding (me) and vomiting (me) and arguments (also, me) and shouting (Amy) and stress (Nathan). But we did it.

And then I took a mental holiday, as December tried to suck out my soul and my brain simutaneously. It wasn’t pleasant, as I finished miscarrying at a school pageant in which religion was mentioned more times than I felt comfortable wish.

But we all survived (except the fetus, which didn’t have a chance) and my body decided to magically work and get pregnant again. Not that the actual conception was magical (fun is a better word). There will be no religions based around an immaculate conception here. The fact I ovulated at all is magical, let alone twice in 8 weeks.

My body is kind of a fuckwit, given to practical jokes and refusals to do anything normally.

Now I sit here, nine weeks pregnant, hot, pukey and still pretty sure I’m missing both my soul and my brain.

Never mind. They can go and join my sanity in the cupboard, if December decides to release them.

{ 2 comments }

Internet, I am dying. Maybe. This headline may contain hyperbole.

by Veronica Foale on November 17, 2011

in Me

Manflu has stricken the household and we’ve all fallen down into a great heap of aching joints and miserableness.

On top of that, my cat is staging her very own #occupy protest.

Be assured that #occupyworkspace is actually nicer than #occupyveronicasneck and #occupythelap, because there is less licking.

There. I said it. My cat likes to lick my nose. I don’t share her joy.

{ 8 comments }

I am a perfectionist

by Veronica Foale on November 12, 2011

in Me

I am a perfectionist, so I bought myself this.

Sometimes, it is easier to do nothing perfectly, than it is to do something.

Especially when you’re a perfectionist and the possibility of failure is weighing on your heart with every step you take.

So I’m wrecking my journal and seeing what happens. NaBlo is also giving my inner perfectionist a run for her money, forcing me to write every day, regardless of quality.

It’s probably good for me.

PS, it’s also my birthday today.

{ 2 comments }

A wedding ceremony, also eeek

by Veronica Foale on November 11, 2011

in Me

My rehearsal is booked and in under a fortnight, we shall traipse off to a park, to practise getting married, before coming home, freaking the fuck out about details and shouting at each other. I can accept this, just as I can accept the fact that we will still get married, because love is shouting at each other and still wanting to see their face.

Eventually.

The hardest part here is now I have to write a wedding ceremony, because everything I had read, all of the samples, all of the words, they all feel plasticky and cardboard, not real and made with parts of soul. Is that weird, that I think words can have souls?

I suspect that writing my wedding ceremony will be harder than anything else I’ve done, but then, this is what I do. I write things down and make people read them.

But.

This isn’t a blog post, or words that I hide in the back of my computer in the hidden files – no, this is something to be read in front of EVERYBODY and help?

{ 3 comments }

If you do what you love…

by Veronica Foale on November 5, 2011

in Children,Family,Me

I had a baby at seventeen, which contrary to popular belief did not ruin my life, or destroy my future. You’d be surprised at how many people will console you on a pregnancy if they feel that you are younger than the “perfect” age to be a mother. You would also be surprised at the treatment that young mothers receive from people in positions of authority, but I digress.

I could list all of my reasons for falling pregnant, but I’ve written them down so many times before that they sound trite. Needless to say, it was the right decision for me and my family and here we are, six years later.

When I was pregnant, and then a new mother, no one asked me what I “did”. Which suited me, because I didn’t know at that point. I was a mother, but my daughter was too screamy for me to think about what else I could do. My entire life was wrapped up in keeping the baby happy, feeding the baby, stopping the baby biting my nipple. While my friends were heading off to Uni, I was changing nappies and discovering just how in love you can fall with something you’ve created.

Two years after my daughter was born, I was pregnant again, with my son. When you’re pregnant, no one asks you what you “do”. You’re just a gestating vessel, the means to an end, a giant egg waiting to crack. Men avoid your eye (is pregnancy catching?) and women ask strange questions about your internal organs. Pregnancy is the only time it is deemed socially acceptable to ask a woman about her cervix.

As is the usual course of events when everything goes well, my son was born, cried some, grew some and eventually got to the age where I could leave him with his Daddy to go and DO things – which is when the inevitable questions start.

I was at an exhibition opening and someone asked me “what do you do?” and instead of saying “I’m a mother” I found myself saying the (only slightly practised in front of a mirror) line: “I am a writer.”

Which then leads to the inevitable questions about what do you write and where and so on. It took a few more months in front of the mirror to get those coming out smoothly.

You see, no one really cares what you DO, it’s just a way to start conversation.

I write things and I publish them on the Internet and 90% of society thinks that I’m a bit weird because of it – but I can ignore them. Anyone can be a writer, that is the beauty of it. Just like anyone can be an artist, or a musician, or a sculptor.

No one cares what you do to earn money – they care about what you DO because you love it. People aren’t interested in how you pay the bills (unless you might be helpful to them), they are interested in passion.

This is what I do. I am a writer and when people ask what I write, I tell them: I write a blog. It’s quite popular now and I really enjoy it.

Try it. The next time someone asks what you do, tell them what you love to do, rather than where you work. They might surprise you.

{ 8 comments }

← Previous Entries